


Your Hand in Mine

by VerdantMoth



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Balinor And Hunith love each other, Canon Typical Violence, Character Death, Dragonlord Balinor, F/M, Hopeful Ending, Illegal Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-15
Updated: 2018-09-15
Packaged: 2019-08-23 14:49:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16621067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VerdantMoth/pseuds/VerdantMoth
Summary: When Hunith thinks of the summer before Merlin, she thinks of a hand, burning warm in her own. She knows a lot of things occurred that summer, life changing and world altering, but all she can think of is broad fingers and calloused palms cupping her face so gently, as though he was holding a star.





	Your Hand in Mine

When Hunith thinks of the summer before Merlin, she thinks of a hand, burning warm in her own. She knows a lot of things occurred that summer, life changing and world altering, but all she can think of is broad fingers and calloused palms cupping her face so gently, as though he was holding a star.

Now that palm is all she focuses on. She ignores the sticks prodding the soles of her feet. She doesn’t think of the heavy wool skirt, too hot for midsummer, wrapping around her ankles, or the sweat pooling beneath her breast and dripping down her back. She doesn’t think of the sun, bearing down on her face as it has been for the last hour.

Balinor’s palm is sweaty in her own hand, gripping tightly. So tightly her bones shift. She remembers another time he gripped her so tightly. Merlin had wailed then, so loud as he’d entered the world that his parents could only laugh.

Now, she waits to hear her son’s cries. It is not the last thing she dreamt she’d ever hear, but now she will take anything

“He won’t come, Hunith.”

She turns her head, as much as she can, and blinks at him. “Oh, but Balinor. I want to see him, one last time.”

His eyes, so much like his son’s in shape, soften imperceptibly. The faintest gold gleams beneath earthy eyes, and for a moment she is not standing here waiting for a king to light the pyres, but she’s back in her village. The moon hangs low in the sky and insects sing loudly. She’s swaying in Balinor’s arms, barefoot and half-dressed in the summer heat. No one can see them, can see the way her shirt hangs off her shoulders or the way his hands brace her swollen belly. The air smells faintly of hemp and honeysuckle. She lets herself sway against him, lets herself dream of the future they might have.

The snap of a twig pulls her from the memory and she’s back, bound to the stakes. Tears leak unbidden from her eyes and she wishes she could lift her hand to wipe them away. “Please, my love, don’t.”

Balinor lets his own tears fall and he takes a moment to breath before he laces their fingers together. “I only wished to make this easier on you.”

Hunith wrestles against her ropes, not to free herself but that she might angle herself towards him more effectively. “I want the chance to see our son, should Gaius not head our advice and bring him anyway!”

Balinor frowns at her, heavy brows performing a complicated routine. “No son should watch his parents burn, Hunith.”

She lets out a sob then, and if it weren’t for the post at her back she thinks she might fall to her knees. “Oh Balinor. Have we done the right thing? Sending him away so young?”

Balinor strains against his own bindings, wants nothing more than to hold Hunith here at the end. “My love, we knew this day was coming. Knew the risk I put us at when I chose to stay with you. What we did for Merlin was give him a life, a chance. Gaius is a good man, a great friend. He will not let our boy forget us.”

“But can he protect Merlin from ending up like us?”

There is worry in those brown eyes, deep and unrestrained. But like the gold always just below the surface, there is some hope. “The best chance, my love. Better than any chance we ever could have prayed for.”

She nods at him, and from the corner of her eye sees the guards come with their flaming torches. Balinor’s grip softens, and his thumb runs across her knuckles. “Please my love. I cannot stop this from happening. But I can ease our passing. Let me do this for you, for us.”

Hunith wants to argue, wants to cling to the hope that her son might arrive, that she might glimpse those blue eyes one last time. She nods.

Instantly she’s back in the fields of her village. The air is warm, almost unbearably so, and the men must’ve burned the fields so that might grow again next year, because the faintest ash smell hangs about them. But Balinor holds her in his arms, holds her so tight she can’t breath. There’s no music, only the quiet whisper of Balinor, telling her fantastic tales of dragons and faeries. The heat grows, he’s so warm against her, she worries he might have a fever. He kisses her temple, and she’s surprised that it’s damp with sweat.

“Hold my hand, dear, don’t let go.”  

She can’t think, though she is unsure why. “I am, love. I shan’t let go.”

“That’s good…” he trails off, coughs a few times. “Thats, that’s it. Focus on that, on my hand.”

His hand is warm, sweaty in her grip, and he’s squeezing too tightly again but there is something soothing in it. After a heartbeat, it is all she can feel. Everything she is exist in the span of Balinor’s palm.

“Open your eyes, love.” It comes out a broken whisper.

“I can’t. I don’t want to.” She’s tired, so incredibly so, and her chest aches.

“Just for a moment, dear. Just for a second. Open them and look straight ahead.”

It takes a few moments, but Hunith manages to pry her eyes open. At first she cannot see for the dark smoke surrounding her, but she hears Balinor struggled through that strange tongue he speaks in sometimes. Everything clears, and she can see a man at the edge of the village. He’s older than she recalls, his hair greying and his shoulders stooped. Beside him a boy, perhaps thirteen chatters away. His hair is dark and though she thinks she should be too far to tell for sure, his eyes are blue.

“Thank you, Balinor.”  He doesn’t respond. His hand grows limp in hers, and she tries to grip it tighter, to cling to this last link. As her eyes drift shut, the wind carries muffled voices to her. She cannot repeat what they say, but the laughter, laughter she’d know anyway, rings clear across the courtyard.

Her last breath slips out of her. She is floating. Nothing binds her to anything. It’s not bright but it is not dark. She thinks it is cool, or perhaps cooler than where she was before. Her palm itches.

Someone reaches out, through the haze. When the palm, calloused and broad, grips hers, she smiles and steps onto a field of soft grass and into lilac air. Music floats, and she finds herself braced against a familiar chest.

“Hello love.”

“Hello, my dear.”

 


End file.
